That night, after handling the day's military affairs, Vig wrapped himself in a thin blanket and tried to sleep.
Sleep never came.
After tossing and turning for more than two hours, he finally got up and walked to the central command tent, where the Viper Baron was on night duty.
"Any news from the main army?" Vig asked.
Viper replied listlessly, "None. It's been six days since our last contact."
Deep in enemy territory, communication between the two forces was painfully difficult. Ragnar's messengers couldn't simply cross half of West Francia. Instead, they had to follow the supply route back to Calais, sail to Saint-Malo, change horses, and then ride all the way to the front—making a huge detour just to deliver a single message.
Accidents were common.
Joren, Shrike, Torgil, and Viper were long used to it.
Back when they were besieging Nantes, there had been a full week without any news from the main army. The command staff had grown so anxious they were ready to abandon everything and flee. Only later did they learn the truth—Calais had been battered by days of torrential rain, violent winds, and rough seas. The messenger had been stuck there for five days, unable to sail until the weather cleared.
Because of that, Viper no longer cared much about such things. Maybe Calais was flooded again. Maybe the courier got lost and wandered into Frankish territory. Worrying was pointless and only bred anxiety.
But after hearing the answer, Vig's expression darkened. His heartbeat quickened.
He went out to patrol the camp.
The moonlight was dim, thin clouds drifting overhead. Sharp, mournful bird calls echoed in the distance. Trees and undergrowth loomed in the darkness, twisted like grotesque specters.
"Something's wrong," Vig muttered.
"Something has definitely gone wrong."
At dawn, having not slept all night, Vig dispatched all reconnaissance cavalry, ordering them to expand their search radius and ignore nothing suspicious.
"Uncle?" Leif brought him breakfast.
Vig drank more than half a bowl of fish soup, then turned back to the map. Comparing it with the letters Ragnar had sent over the past weeks, he carefully traced both sides' marching routes and troop deployments with a quill.
Leif wanted to urge him to eat more, but Utgard stopped him.
"It's the duke's habit," Utgard said quietly. "When he's thinking deeply, he never eats more than half full. He says it keeps his mind sharp."
Soon the morning fog lifted. The blazing sun covered the land. Thousands of soldiers loitered in camp with nothing to do.
Ulf, Little Pascal, Lexa, and the others arrived after hearing the summons. Seeing Vig's grave expression, they wisely refrained from disturbing him.
At nine in the morning, Leif—dozing outside the tent—was startled awake. Following instructions, he blew the horn, summoning the commanders.
Vig's eyes were bloodshot.
"I'm fifty percent certain," he said flatly, "that His Majesty's main force has already made contact with Charles the Bald."
The first sentence alone made everyone's hearts sink.
"Additionally," Vig continued, "I have a bad feeling. There's a highly capable Frankish force operating nearby, waiting for a chance to annihilate us."
Panic spread instantly. The nobles all looked to Vig, desperate for a solution.
Vig took a deep breath and pointed at the map, now cluttered with markings.
"Look here. To our west is a river flowing north into the Loire. According to yesterday's scouts, there's a fishing village ten miles southwest. We'll cross there by boat, then follow the river back to Brittany and embark from Saint-Malo. Brittany is in open revolt—Frankish forces won't dare to push too deep."
He immediately ordered a forced march.
"All captured cloth, wine, and surplus grain—abandon it. We move fast and reach the village as soon as possible."
"The scouts haven't returned yet—maybe this is a bit…" Lexa tried to object.
Vig gave him a cold look.
Lexa swallowed the rest of his words.
Orders rippled through the army. Some Swedish raiders began to grumble, but Vig ignored them entirely. He sent the cavalry and two mountain infantry companies ahead, personally leading the two infantry regiments behind them. Soon, they vanished down the road.
"That's it? Just leaving without even saying a word?"
Several hundred raiders remained with the baggage train, staring at the backs of the departing troops. Fear took hold. Many ran after the Northern Serpent, while just over a hundred greed-driven men stayed behind, unwilling to abandon the hundreds of supply wagons.
After a hard sprint, Torgil's cavalry reached the fishing village. They stormed the docks and requisitioned thirty fishing boats from the villagers.
By noon, the mountain infantry arrived, panting, and erected spiked chevaux-de-frise around the village.
Not long after, Vig's infantry regiments arrived with two hundred supply wagons, slightly slower due to the load.
They immediately began building a pontoon bridge.
After half an hour of frantic work, Ulf's, Little Pascal's, and the other units arrived. They were assigned to dig horse pits and erect wooden palisades around the village perimeter.
At three in the afternoon, the scouts who had gone out earlier returned to the now-empty camp. Following the trail of discarded supplies, they eventually reached the fishing village.
Vig counted heads.
Only two scouts were missing—the ones sent northeast, where rolling hills and forests provided perfect cover for hidden troops.
His suspicion was confirmed.
The Franks had silently cut off their retreat.
If Vig hadn't reacted in time, more than four thousand men would have been wiped out.
At sunset, the pontoon bridge was nearly complete when nearly two thousand Frankish cavalry thundered into view. They were stopped by the spiked barriers outside the village, then caught in a volley from crossbowmen hidden inside the houses. Dozens were unhorsed.
"Let those useless troops withdraw first," Vig ordered. "You stay with me on the east bank."
Distrusting the irregular units, Vig sent them across the river with the baggage. He himself remained behind with the two infantry regiments to hold the village.
Having already witnessed the horror of dense pike formations, the Frankish cavalry dared not advance. They stayed outside missile range, hurling curses instead.
Once all friendly troops and wagons crossed safely, Vig ordered a disciplined withdrawal.
Just then, another massive force appeared to the east—over two thousand mounted soldiers on inferior horses. Judging by their riding style and equipment, they were mounted infantry.
"So much effort," Vig sneered. "They really think highly of me."
After crossing to the west bank, Vig had the pontoon bridge set ablaze. Amid the shouts and curses of the enemy on the far shore, his force withdrew under the glow of the setting sun.
Late that night, Vig convened a war council.
The nobles sat in silence. After everything that had happened that day, none of them dared question his judgment.
"Returning north to the Loire estuary will take three days," Vig said. "If the enemy crosses farther south, their cavalry can intercept us midway—here."
He pointed to a spot south of the fishing village.
"I paid villagers for information. There's another settlement twenty miles south. Gunnar is very likely to cross there. We march south overnight. When they're halfway across the river…"
A cold smile crossed his face.
"…we'll strike suddenly—and give them a very unpleasant surprise."
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